By Mackenzie Taylor

you have a great knack for giving me an opportunity to speak,
but shoving your dental probes in my mouth,
so I just stop trying.

maybe it’s just for pleasantry,
all of this sweet talk,
to seem like you’re one of the nice dentists.

“you really should’ve flossed more,” you tell me
when I did. every time.
but why would you believe me 
when I have no proof,
right?
it’s clear that I was asking for cavities,
I shouldn’t be eating candy so late at night.

once I finally maneuver my voice through your fingers,
you wire my mouth shut. 

“don’t try to speak.
it’ll do you more harm than good.”

you ask why there are so many imprints along my tongue;
maybe it’s from my teeth,
biting down so I don’t bite you instead.

I told you about my old damaging dentist,
and you claimed “not all of us are like that.
he was just being a dentist,
maybe you should’ve said something.
your teeth were probably the problem, not him.”

it doesn’t matter if my teeth were sensitive or not.
I was there for an appointment;
all safety precautions checked off.
I never signed the form to bleed and be silenced.

you aren’t going to talk over me,
or tell me I was asking for it.

get your fingers out of my mouth
before I bite them.